Eddie Izzard has introduced Parisians to “L’art de talking cobblers"
in his full stand-up set in French at the Stripped Theatre de Dix Heures.
Rating: * * * *

The first time Eddie Izzard made a bid to perform a full stand-up set in French, he tanked, as they don’t say in Paris. His faltering grasp of the language wasn’t endearing-bumbling it was simply affreux.

Older, wiser, richer but as set on his brand of comédie mondiale as ever, Eddie the eternal Europhile has returned to the fray, having paid his dues over the past decade by taking French lessons, playing further gigs, and assuming more in the way of tortoise than hare in his approach. His persistence has paid off nicely: his run at this 135-seater studio, a short stroll from the Gare Du Nord, has won praise from the local press and is packing zem in. This Saturday, by popular demand, he’s shifting to a bigger theatre. It’s Izzard’s very own arc de triomphe, you could say.

Does he coupe la moutarde? Mais oui, mes amis. Essentially, he’s peddling an hour-long version of his last arena show, Stripped – a ludicrous “histoire de tout”, which benefits from the trimming even if the new brevity leaves the audience wanting more. What’s impressive is that he hasn’t simply learned a workable translation by rote. Sauntering on stage in understated jacket and jeans, he drawls an insouciant welcome - “Bienvenue à ici”, engages in badinage with latecomers and does a riff magnifique about the louche Pigalle locale, and its bizarre juxtapositions of sleazy shops and pharmacies. He also manages to link the mafia, sex and Sarkozy, which, along with his blatant atheism, creates a tangible frisson of scandalised delight.

If he was too slick, it wouldn’t be funny – the shambling nature of the act is integral to its charm – but there’s a playful assurance now about the way he feels his way around his adopted tongue, relishing its novelties and pointing out its peculiarities. He throws in daffy Franglais coinages (“les dips”), takes open pride in negotiating a subjunctive and busks absurd approximations: Jurassic Park he restyles “Jardin des Tuileries Un Peu Plus Dangereux”. He turns his failure to identify the right definite article for “la table” into an indignant routine, peppered with earthy English expletives, about the over-regulated nature of “le le et le la”.

Subtle? He’s that too: comparing the French for transvestite – “travesti” – to its English homophone (travesty) he declares that over here, in effect, he’s a “catastrophe”.

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He clearly isn’t, although there’s no sycophantic pandering to the Englishman abroad either. Sometimes he’s met with a polite silence. A groan even goes up at his infantile introduction to God’s other sons – “A-sus, B-sus, C-sus” etc. Overall, though, there are far more belly-laughs than Gallic shrugs. As well as responding, as you’d expect, to his aptitude for mime, our French cousins seem as receptive to tall-tales about giraffes playing charades or the joys of Scrabble before language was invented as we are. Paris gave the world surrealism – now, thanks to Monsieur Izzard, they’ve been introduced to “L’art de talking cobblers”. It’s a fair swap, n'est-ce pas?